Look painful? It is.
Remember that glorious feeling you get when the dimness of sickness leaves your body? I remember it, but it no longer touches me. Still—there is a glimmer. The memory touches me. But Autoimmune disease is always with me. It tamps down that memory. I ascend from the depths of illness only to be reminded that my body doesn’t work right. I figure it operates on the level of a seventy-five+-year-old. It galls me.
Stories grab me, and I had an idea on which I wanted to follow-up. I got ready and took off. I needed pictures and conversation. And needed to absorb some of the revelries. Bad idea? It seems so. But I needed a departure from my difficulties. But it’s like having a five-year-old child gripping your hand. I cannot leave my illness behind.
On my way home, I lost focus on my feet. I had this impetus driving me Home—Home… Really a bad strategy. My ankle reminded me it was there by buckling. I regained my focus on my feet too late. I realized if I didn’t succumb to my ankle’s demands, I could at most break it or at least get myself a severe sprain. I accommodated my ankle. I fell like a tree being cut down in a forest. I’d like to say my mind murmured, “Ti-i-i-imber,” but I don’t remember.
Worst still, I fell onto the asphalt on the street. I lay there like a fish out of water while cars drove around me. It was disheartening.
Another car stopped, and the daughter and a man lifted me to my feet. I heard the mother yelling at her adolescent daughter, “Don’t touch her!” But the daughter ignored her mother urgings. I was back on my feet in no time.
The woman approached, telling me she was a nurse.
Well—I made it, thinking of how I would pay for my fall later. I figured I’d have until the next day, but the glow of pain caught up with me too quickly. I did my story and went to bed.
That was a Saturday. It was Tuesday before I finally dragged myself to the doctor. The Physicians Assistant did a rather cursory examination and directed me to X-ray.
People often do not get the difficulties of being disabled, but I was surprised to find this demeanor in a PA. I faced the horror of the long hallway, making my way one step at a time. When I finally got to the fifth floor, X-ray was forever down another long hall. I was like that choo-choo train, murmuring in my head, I think I can. I think I can. I know I can. I did. One foot in front of the other. Step by step.
The moral of this story? Hey—the disabled are disabled. Sucks, but true. I keep warding off that Sucks to be me lament. This is all I got, and I appreciate what I’m still able to do.